


me and you had a long walk home

by haloud



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emetophobia, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 15:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20641148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haloud/pseuds/haloud
Summary: Max doesn't look well. Hasn't, actually, for weeks since that night in the desert.





	me and you had a long walk home

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from children's work by dessa
> 
> this fic is not for redistribution without express permission.

Max doesn’t look well.

Hasn’t, actually, for weeks since that night in the desert. “That night” is the only way Michael ever thinks about it, thinks around it, in his mind, because anything else is too much, too big. Sometimes when his mind wanders he finds himself picking invisible grains of sand out from under his nails even though his mind, so conveniently, always keeps his hands clean.

Max isn’t quite so lucky.

Isobel talks more than usual, maybe because the silence is more than she can bear, maybe because the quiet is just like a big broad peaceful desert night, and Michael does his best to keep pace with her, if that’s what it is she needs. He talks for Isobel, and he watches for Max, when Isobel talks and Max goes away behind his eyes. He makes sure to carve out some time to be quiet for Max, too.

It’s on one of those quiet days. Michael parks his truck a little ways down the road so he doesn’t have to have another conversation about cars with Mr. Evans when he comes home from work, and he sprawls out on his stomach on the rug under Max’s bedroom window, English notes spread out around him. There isn’t a test for a couple weeks still, but he likes to study English when Max is around.

Over on the bed, Max has his knees tucked up almost to his chest and stares sightlessly at Michael’s algebra notes. Michael’s notes, because Max has been skipping class, and he doesn’t want anyone—Isobel—to know. Michael doesn’t know how to ask why or how to tell him it’s going to be okay.

Is it going to be okay? Max is usually the one who knows the answer to that question.

Michael huffs and props his chin on his fist. Shakespeare’s _Julius Caesar _is vastly more interesting when Max gives rambling, rapturous explanations for all the twisty language and hidden, historical jokes; just off the page, Michael’s attention can’t help but wander. Downstairs, Mrs. Evans has the Barefoot Contessa playing at like a thousand decibels; Max’s old-timey alarm clock tocks incessantly on the dresser; the bar-shaped bruise across Michael’s lower back throbs in time with his heartbeat, tangling his muscles up in knots, impossible to ignore. Stretching out helps a little bit, so he does, swinging his arms over his head, popping his spine, and kinking up his toes. He can’t help but whimper a little bit at the pain, but it’s nothing he’s not used to. Giving up on studying, he flops his face down right on top of Julius, pressing his flushed cheek to the cool, glossy page of the textbook and closing his eyes. Max probably won’t even notice or care if he takes a nap right here.

“That sounded like shit.”

It takes a second for Michael to react to the sound of Max’s voice, quiet and dull as it is. When it finally registers, he just barks out a laugh and says, “You sound like shit, man.”

“I’m serious, Michael. Are you hurt?”

“Nah, man, my posture just sucks. According to Isobel, anyway. D’you think she’d get off my back if I started walking around with a book on my head? I know it’s a bold choice fashion-wise, but I think I could pull it off…”

“Stop changing the subject.”

“Max, I’m not hurt. Drop it.”

“Liar.”

“What the hell is your deal? I said drop it.”

“And I called you a liar.”

Michael tries to roll over so he can glare at his brother, but the second his back comes in contact with the floor his whole body jerks him back onto his stomach so fucking quick it’s unmistakable. He muffles a _fuck! _into the carpet as a wave of animal trembling wracks through him, curling away from the pain.

“Let me see.”

Gritting his teeth, Michael says, “Leave it the fuck alone, Max, I’m not kidding—”

All of the sudden, Max _lunges _off the bed, exploding from stillness into motion, looking _unhuman _for the first time Michael’s ever seen, from any of them, and he shouts and tries to scramble away but Max plants himself on his calves and stops him from going anywhere—

“Get _off—” _Michael howls, but Max doesn’t budge, and Michael bunches up the air around him, bracing to throw Max across the room if he has to, but Max is already yanking his shirt up to expose the massive blotch of black and purple mottling his back and maybe maybe Michael ought to toss him anyway because he can’t take this back, can’t do anything else, and all he wanted was for Max and Isobel to never, never know, and—

“What _else _am I supposed to do? You never fucking tell us _anything,” _Max almost shouts, gripping Michael’s shirt so tight in his fist Michael’s scared he’ll rip it.

“That doesn’t mean you have to act like a fucking psycho, man, get off me before I _throw _you off!”

“Yeah _right_, like you’d actually—”

Normally Max might have a point, because Michael doesn’t actually want to hurt him, and if they make too much noise Mrs. or Mr. Evans might come investigate, and maybe they’ll throw him out of their house if he’s been fighting with their son. But Michael hates, _hates _feeling trapped, hates feeling eyes on him where he’s hurt, where he’s vulnerable, so he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to _stop _himself from lashing out, and then Michael feels, with that extra sense, the extra awareness he’s never been able to explain, Max reach out to touch him, and he just flails out, trying desperately to get away.

“Stop _squirming! _I just want to see how bad it is!”

“Don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t don’t don’t—”

“I’m not going to hurt you!”

Pulse rabbiting in his throat, humiliated at the tears swimming in his eyes, Michael wishes so bad that Isobel was home so she’d feel him crying out and come _do _something about it, because Max _always _listens to her. But she’s gone, off at a friend’s house, and Michael is all alone now that Max isn’t listening, now that he won’t stop. Still throwing his weight around, Michael tries to roll over, he doesn’t care about how much it’s going to hurt if he can just keep Max from touching him.

“Stay _still_, you’re just gonna make it worse—”

But Michael doesn’t listen, manages to haul himself onto his side, sees Max’s too-pale face twisted with anger and hurt, sees him reaching out again with hands that start to glow just at the same time Michael loses control, explodes, throws a ball of awful energy right into his brother, but not so soon Max doesn’t wrap his burning hand around Michael’s bicep—

They shout, both of them, and a bolt of something jumps from Max to Michael, not quite pain, not quite _anything, _just a disorienting shock, like that _jerk _that feels like falling in the second before falling asleep. Michael thinks maybe he loses a little bit of time? Like he blinks, then can’t quite breathe, then blinks again, and his ears are ringing and he can’t quite wrap his mind around the _absence _of pain.

Because he doesn’t. Feel any pain anymore? He tries to twist to see his back but can’t quite do it, but the movement doesn’t hurt _at all _the way he hasn’t felt in weeks.

“What the—” he pants, scrambling into a sitting position, whipping his head around to look for a mirror.

But all he sees is Max.

Max is in the corner, knees up to his chest like how they started, his hands clenched in his hair. And he’s sobbing, rocking back and forth, crying like the whole world is ending, like his heart is breaking.

“M-max, hey,” Michael says hoarse and trembling, and whatever weird thing just happened is all forgotten in the face of Max’s pain.

Max just shakes his head; Michael crawls closer, not sure he can stand, only for Max to shrink away.

“I could’ve—I could’ve—I almost—” he sobs, “Like that guy—but it’s you—I shouldn’t be allowed to—around people—I should just _die—” _

“Max!

Before Michael can say anything else, Max doubles over and pukes, and it’s impossible to know if it’s from using some sort of power—kind of like how Isobel does, though it’s never hit Michael like that, so it’s probably him that’s a freak—or if it’s just from how hard he’s crying. Either way, Michael swallows down his own bile and sidesteps the sick so he can crouch down and rub Max’s back, firm and solid, speaking softly to him like he might a feral cat.

“Max, look at me, Max, it’s Michael, I swear I’m okay, I’m sorry I threw you, look, just look, it doesn’t even hurt anymore, it’s going to be okay, I’ll call Isobel—”

Max shakes his head wildly—he heaves again, but nothing comes up, and through his wrecked, clogged throat, he gasps, “No!—I’ll just—her too, go, go away, get away from me, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry _Michael_”

“Come _on.” _

But Max won’t answer, and he won’t look at him, just shaking his head and rocking back and forth, so Michael just grabs his hand and wrenches it towards himself, presses Max’s hand to the smooth, healthy skin of his back where the bruise was before. Under his fingertips, there are no knots, no swelling, no ridge of broken skin, and it seems to shock him into silence.

“I don’t know what you did, man,” Michael says, shakily, “But I’m not dead. I think—I think you fucking healed me?”

Frozen, they stare at each other, tears still pouring down Max’s face, Michael still holding his hand.

Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, Max collapses into Michael’s arms. And what can Michael do except for hold him, while he cries himself to sleep?

**Author's Note:**

> ALIEN BROSSSSS T-T
> 
> discord @ haloud  
tumblr @ cosmicsolipsism


End file.
